Safety Net
by DrKCooper
Summary: Inspired by the last episode, "How the Sausage is Made", a return to the most Joanlock moments of late season 4 and early season 5. Likely just a single chapter piece.


_Disclaimer: All recognizable_ Elementary _characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners including, but not limited to CBS. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this fan fiction story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No financial gain is associated with the publishing of this story. No copyright infringement is intended._

 _Author's note: This piece began as a response or post-ep to "Who Is That Masked Man?" (04x14). I left it for a long time, but now am ready to get back to it as I see what I view as progress between Joan and Sherlock in season 5 with respect to his sobriety. It includes dialogue from "A Difference in Kind" (04x24) and the scene from the recent episode "How the Sausage is Made" (05x08). Thanks to the reader who kicked me back into gear with this fandom Apologies for typos and grammatical errors. -dkc_

 **Safety Net**

How long had he known what his mother was before he told Watson? He hardly had time to digest the weight of his mother's addiction before he found himself telling her. And as he said it, he realized he wasn't saying it to his former sober companion, he was saying it to his friend.

Joan Watson knew the significance of a parent who was afflicted with the lifelong illness of addiction. She knew the statistics on children who had parents who were addicts. As a medical student she had done a rotation in the NICU where she treated babies born addicted to heroin and meth because of mothers addicted during pregnancy. She also knew the science behind heredity. But more than anything, Joan knew him.

Sherlock Holmes was an insular character. He was seldom the type to confide in another. Stoic and stubborn, the burden that was his addiction was not something he shared with anyone. Except for Watson.

It was a weighty thing to learn, at the age of forty, that your mother was an addict. It shouldn't have surprised her that he told her. However, somehow after all this time, their life together was still with its surprises. And sometimes those surprises could be weighty.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," she found herself deeply conflicted about his father for telling his son this. When had she not been conflicted about Sherlock's father?

"As I said, knowing that this wasn't something I somehow deserved, a direct punishment for my shortcomings, is in some ways a relief," he was solemn and introspective as only he could be.

"Do you think your father told you now for a reason?" she asked.

"My father is a man of motives, Watson. He is nothing but predictable in this regard. Why he chose now? I'm not certain as of yet."

He had barely looked at her once they began speaking of Morland Holmes.

Standing from her chair, Joan did something that was unlike her—she reached out to him. Placing a hand on his shoulder and looking him in the eye, she offered a silent apology to him for his father's behavior and his mother's illness. It was no wonder Sherlock was the man he was.

"Nobody deserves addiction. Nobody deserves the hell you have endured because of your addiction. You are a good man. Do not let what may seem an eventuality of illness color your perception of who you are."

Looking up at her, he felt a warm gratitude for Joan that he hadn't felt in some time. Where he would be without this woman, whose services had been ironically paid for my Morland in the beginning, he dare not think.

…

He couldn't get his father's words out of his head.

 _"Being loved by you is a dangerous thing, Sherlock."_

The elder Holmes had said it with such certainty.

He knew this to be true, but for reasons other than those presently risking his and Joan's life. As an addict, he was well aware of his own self-destruction and the way it could take down those around him.

" _Men like us…we're not meant to make such connections."_

This he found perplexing. Had his father meant this about Sherlock's relationship with Irene Adler or had he meant this about Joan?

His father understood what Sherlock had not yet accepted or admitted.

 _"Ask yourself, Sherlock: Who do you love more than any other in the world? And what do you think will happen if you stay with her?"_

Joan. Of course he had meant Joan.

Joan was the most important person in his life and had been since she arrived at his door, his father's "gift" of a sober companion to save his son from heroin addiction. Their partnership had been the most professionally successful arrangement of his life. Their friendship had given him strength in his darkest hours. Joan had changed him.

He wondered if she knew. Was his father alone in his knowledge of Sherlock's love for Joan? Perhaps Joan could see that love in his eyes—if not in his eyes, in his actions.

It would be her choice to stay with him now that the threat against them was clear. He couldn't imagine going forward without her. However, he would do anything to protect her.

He kept hearing his father's words as he stood overlooking the city from the vast safe house that his father had given him—had given he _and_ Joan.

She was wandering around the sterile, cold space as he continued to hear his father's voice in his head. She hadn't wanted to move and, to her credit, hadn't jumped at the chance to have a space of her own. It felt as if they had moved on from the days of needing space from one another. Even with her separate office space in the basement of the brownstone, she spent the majority of her time wherever he was. She didn't need space from him.

"Are you ready to go?" her voice startled him as it echoed off the bare walls. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's fine," he corrected his posture and turned toward her. "Yes, I am ready."

"Are you okay?" she sensed his malaise.

He looked at her, almost through her. He collected himself and put his father out of his mind once and for all. He would not question his parting with the property, but more importantly he wouldn't question his devotion and loyalty to Joan. He was not his father. He was not going to bring harm to Joan.

"Let's go home."

Home. The brownstone hasn't been home until Joan. That meant something.

…

She couldn't remember when she stopped being bothered by his waking her. Even in the more odd ways he had gone about waking her, she found some comfort in the continuity of this game he played.

This time was different.

He had woken her hundreds of times over the years and sometimes in adrenaline-heightened circumstances. However, she was more rattled by the way he had woken her this time than any time before.

"Watson…" she heard his quiet voice through the fog of sleep. "Joan."

There was something about the way he spoke when saying her first name that garnered her rapt attention. Her eyes opened milliseconds before he reached her arm with the gentlest of touches.

"What's wrong?" she asked him, suddenly worried that something had happened while she dozed.

He remained seated next to her amidst a pile of case files. Nothing had changed in their immediate surroundings, yet everything had changed. When he spoke her name and reached for her with the kind of care only shared between loved ones, the very ground beneath them had shifted.

"Sherlock?" she sat upright, wiping the remaining sleep from her eyes.

"We've been summoned to the morgue," he spoke softly, evenly.

His eyes remained on her as they had even before she had crossed through the fog into wakefulness. Just as gentle as his touch was the way his eyes took her in. It was as if he were setting eyes on her for the first time, inventorying the luster of her hair, the way her eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly in curiosity, the way she could look equally fashionable in pajama shorts and a t-shirt or one of her many skirts, vests and ties combinations.

She felt his piercing eyes and knew not what to say. Standing from her seat, she straightened the files that had been in her lap.

"Perhaps after our trip to the morgue you can attend a meeting."

…

She had impressed upon him the importance of attending meetings. She had shared with him what she had learned from her time as a sober companion. In her words, "every time someone tries to go it alone, it always ends badly." But he had to take that step. He had to admit that his boredom was self-induced and a roadblock to his continued sobriety.

As he left the meeting, he felt at peace with himself. He had admitted that boredom would be the biggest impediment to his success or, more precisely, his using that boredom an excuse for ridding himself of the necessary tools that would ensure his sobriety long term.

"Hey." Joan stood on the bottom step of the brownstone's stoop, clearly leaving.

"Do we have a case?" he was surprised that she was leaving the house at this time of night.

"No," she smiled mischievously. "I'm actually going out for dessert. Care to join me?"

"Dessert at this hour?" he looked down at the time on his phone. "What brought this about?"

"All that schmeat and I couldn't stomach the thought of real dinner. Dessert should be safe, right?" she smiled.

"I'd be happy to join you," he said.

Turning on the sidewalk and beginning in the direction of what he knew to be Joan's favorite diner, he was surprised when she took his arm and began walking him beside him with them linked.

"Where were you?" she asked as they passed a man walking four dogs on the city sidewalk.

"I went to a meeting."

Her head turned to look at him, glad, of course, but also curious as to why he had finally taken the step.

"I thought about what you said," he didn't make eye contact.

"About boredom?" she asked.

"About my being arrogant," he countered.

"I'm sorry I—" he cut her off.

"You're right, of course. I do believe I am intellectually superior to the others who attend those meetings. That's not to what I refer," he paused and considered his next words carefully. "It was arrogant to believe that you are nothing but part of the safety net and that I have no obligation to keep you in the loop both as my former sober companion and my friend."

"It's totally up to you how much you want to include me, Sherlock."

"But it isn't, not really. I owe my sobriety to you. Had my father shipped me off to rehab in New York and left me to my own demons, I would have disappeared into the abyss. Had he not sent you to me, I would be dead now. You helped me see what sobriety could do for me, both physically and mentally with my powers of deduction. You stuck with me, despite my being your most difficult client, and somehow you didn't balk at the prospect of continuing to work with me as partners. You are more than a safety net, far more."

She felt tears welling in her eyes and refused to cry in front of him. Not now, not about this.

"You are my friend, Watson. You are my best friend. Our home, our work, our friends—I wouldn't have any of it without you."

"Sherlock…" she felt before she saw his eyes on her.

"You are infinitely more than a friend," he said the words quickly and with a returned since of awkwardness.

His eyes returned to the sidewalk, his body rigid. Her hand arm still looped through his, they continued walking toward the diner.

It wasn't until Sherlock felt Joan's head lean against his upper arm that he knew she understood.

 _-finis-_


End file.
